Daddima Me. In response to "anyone else?" that is.
I hate the smell.
You are sitting outside peacefully absorbing the gift of a pleasantly scented warm Summer evening. There is something so heavenly about an English Summer evening! The birds singing their bed-time love songs, the flowers' fragrance delicate on the air. It is a balm to the soul! Then, crunch an assault on the senses, the nose hurts, eyes sting, a threatening vapour, first of spilled petrol or paraffin, then the smoke billows over. It hits your stomach and hurts your breathing. A migraine pain stabs through your eye.
Choking, you leave your once peaceful sanctuary and go indoors, the evening ruined, violently stolen from you .
Only later, on going to bed, you find that you left the window open and all your bedding and clothes smell of burnt flesh as if some evil human sacrifice is being performed and that closing the window is too late but doing so still does not reduce the beery bulging rise and fall of drunken laughter and shouting voices at the BBQ party down the road.
How can people desecrate Summer like this? What kind of people are they? Do they have no soul? No tenderness? No love of peace or appreciation for that joy in the heart that connects us to nature when we are in her gentle moments, being held more lovingly than a new baby, wrapped in the kindness of a balmy warm fragrant Summer evening?
If I lit a bonfire on a pleasant Summer evening, they would probably lynch me.